


lord, my soul to take

by theroseofthereach



Series: lord, my soul to keep [1]
Category: Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins)
Genre: Choking, F/M, Face Slapping, Hair-pulling, Minor Injuries, Name-Calling, Spanking, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22989487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroseofthereach/pseuds/theroseofthereach
Summary: You and Maxwell Lord get up to a little risky business in his office; just be careful not to lose your head completely.
Relationships: Maxwell Lord/Reader, Maxwell Lord/You
Series: lord, my soul to keep [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782325
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	lord, my soul to take

Sometimes, you wish you could wear longer skirts, or even trousers, to work. The windows of the office stand open, and the breeze that occasionally sweeps through the room is making you nervous. The hem of your skirt flutters slightly, disturbed by the circulating air. You stand by the side of Maxwell Lord’s desk, dutifully taking notes as he briefs the marketing team. 

At the very least, having to take notes is a good distraction. It keeps you focused on your work, and not on the way your heart started to beat a little faster as soon as the office door closed behind you. 

Simply entering the office of your employer should not set your heart to pounding. Mr. Lord has barely even acknowledged your presence today, except to occasionally dictate orders to you over the phone. Even now, standing barely two feet away from him, he acts as though you aren’t there at all. 

The minutes crawl by as the team works their way down the agenda, which chiefly concerns the shooting of a new commercial. Though your note-taking provides some distraction, you’re still conscious of how the breeze feels against your legs. It draws your attention persistently to how much bare skin you have exposed, your hem an inch or so higher than you’d prefer. 

Months ago, Mr. Lord had sent boxes and boxes of clothes to your apartment, with a succinct order that you were to replace your entire work wardrobe with the contents. By that point, it hadn’t even come as a surprise. You were his assistant, his gatekeeper, one of the first faces his visitors saw. It made sense that he wanted you to make a good impression on guests. 

Still, sometimes you wished you were less on display, especially when a few members of the marketing team sent leering looks in your direction. Did they know? Did they suspect? You try to keep your ear to the ground as far as gossip goes, though you haven’t heard anything specific. None of the other staff has yet had the gall to call you a whore to your face, at least. 

Would it make them ogle more openly if they knew about the pretty lingerie and the litany of bruises you have hidden beneath your clothes? Would they avert their eyes and stop staring if they knew who had given them to you? You might have to test your theories soon, if your skirt catches the wrong way in the breeze and flashes the marks on your thighs. 

The meeting drags on for over an hour, and your fingers hurt by the end of it. As the marketing team makes to leave, you remain in your place by the desk and flex your cramping hand as best as you can. The head of the marketing department is the last to exit, bidding Maxwell a respectful goodbye and promising to update the script as discussed. 

You’re so distracted by trying to balance your notebook under one arm while you massage your hand that you don’t think twice about trying to leave. You barely have the chance to take a step before you’re suddenly stopped. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Fingers curl into your belt, halting you in your tracks. God, he’s not even touching you, his hand is wrapped entirely around the leather of your belt. It still sends your heart hammering faster. You daren’t move. Half of you wants to make a break for the door; the other half wants to lean back into his grip. 

“I’m sorry, sir. Did you want something else?” You choke out. Of all the thoughts racing through your head, you find yourself hoping that he doesn’t break the belt. It’s a vintage Hermès piece, and one that you’ve grown fond of. The buckle digs into your stomach as he pulls harder, and though it shouldn’t, the feeling makes you shiver. 

“Go over there, and take your clothes off.” Mr. Lord murmurs after a long moment, pushing you towards one of the sleek leather chairs angled in front of his desk. You try not to get your hopes up, knowing that he might not even want to touch you at all. Sometimes he doesn’t, and you leave his office touch-starved and shaking with arousal. 

You try hard not to let your fingers shake as you strip. Maxwell Lord is not a man who likes to be kept waiting, and the slightest fumble with a button or struggle with a zipper might cost you something. What it would cost, you’re never sure. His punishments are doled out without rhyme or reason, and are often indistinguishable from what pleasures he allows you. It should scare you, how much that idea intoxicates you. It should terrify you. God help you; it doesn’t. 

You’re careful to leave your clothes folded on the chair as you shed them until you stand, stripped, in front of his desk. If someone were to walk in now, you would have nowhere to hide. The door isn’t locked, it almost never is at times like this. Anybody could walk in and see you completely bare, completely at Mr. Lord’s mercy. 

Your hands shake a little, but you leave them hanging loosely at your sides. Max doesn’t like it when you try to hide behind your hands. The anticipation is what’s killing you, tension and fear coiling in the pit of your stomach and combining with your arousal to create a lethal cocktail. 

Eventually Max looks up at you, as though he’s only just remembered that you’re here at all. His utter disregard shouldn’t make you press your legs a little closer together. You’ve been in this position more times than you care to admit. Even if Mr. Lord has no desire to touch you, sometimes he still has you strip so he can look over his handiwork. 

And ‘handiwork’ is such an appropriate term, though his hands only account for slightly more than half of the marks that decorate your skin. Bruises bloom everywhere, some in vivid purples and blues, others in softer greens and ugly yellows. There are bitemarks too; the places where he’s sucked and nipped and sunk his teeth into your skin are stained in the same way. 

“Turn around.” His tone is neutral, deliberately disaffected. He might as well be telling you to close the window for all the emotion in this voice. You obey unhesitatingly, turning your back on him. You still have hand-sized welts crisscrossing the curve of your backside from two days ago, the bruises a little deeper in colour where his heavy golden rings had bitten into your skin. 

“You know, you do mark up so prettily.” 

“Thank you, sir.” You breathe, trying to stop your voice from cracking. It’s as close as you’ll get to a compliment from him. It’s hard to tell how long he keeps you standing there, and with your back to him, you have no way of gauging if he’s actually looking at you or not. All you can do is stand there, and hope that he likes what he sees. 

“Come over here.” He says eventually, clicking his fingers and pointing to a spot just to the right of his chair. There’s a half-finished draft of a memo on his desk that wasn’t there before, and you can’t help but wonder if that’s what he was doing while you had your back to him. 

Once you’re close enough, Max reaches out to take your wrist. The touch makes you jump, in spite of yourself. Though he’s only loosely holding on to you, you know so well that his grip can turn crushing in a heartbeat. You feel so starved of his touch that it should feel like some sort of satisfaction; instead, his fingers brushing against the delicate skin over your pulse point only makes you crave more of him.

“Where did this come from?” He asks you almost casually as his thumb rests against a faded green bruise on your wrist. You swallow thickly. It’s highly unlikely that he’s forgotten; Max likes to keep a careful mental catalogue of the devastation he wreaks on you, just in case you might acquire any marks that weren’t left by him. No, he just wants to hear you say it. 

“Last Tuesday morning, sir. When you-” His hold on you tightens, thumb pushing down into the half-healed bruise. The sensation makes you stumble on your words, the dull ache intensifying under the unrelenting pressure. It shouldn’t be so easy for him to throw you off your balance. Feeling yourself beginning to blush, you fight to continue. 

“When you twisted my arm behind my back, and bent me over the conference table, sir.” You manage to finish, hoping he’s satisfied with your answer. Sometimes, he pushes you for more details, knowing that talking so explicitly embarasses you. 

You try not to breathe a sigh of relief when he lets go of your wrist and moves on. Max stands almost lazily, his fingers running up your arm as he crowds you back against his desk. The sensation makes you shiver, his touch deceptively light as he slides his fingers upwards. His blunt fingertips come to settle on another bruise just below your jaw, this one slightly darker in colour than the first. 

“And this one?” This time, you are granted no grace period before his fingers start to press down. This mark is fresher, and the pain is sharper, and it forces a shuddering intake of breath from you. The backs of your thighs bump against the edge of his desk, and the coldness of the glass tabletop makes you jump. 

“The last time you had me take you in my mouth, sir.” You’re guessing with that one, but it’s the most likely reason he’d leave bruises around your jaw. Again, you have to hope he doesn’t ask you for details. You dare to meet his gaze for the briefest moment, only to regret it instantly and look back down at the floor. 

People often say that they find Maxwell Lord’s eyes unnerving. It’s true that he does have a rather piercing stare, one that makes you feel as though he can see right into your soul. The way he’s looking at you right now is something different. It’s partly amusement, to see you stripped and shaking before him, evidenced by the half-smirk that curls around his mouth. 

Yet there’s something else too, something darker and deeper and desirous. Primal, even. It sets you even further on edge, and makes you look swiftly back down. The soft chuckle he gives tells you that he’s noticed the effect his eyes alone have on you. His hand tightens a little against your neck, pushing you further back against the desk. 

“Sit.” If anyone else tried to talk to you like this, to give you commands that are more commonly given to dogs, you’d snap back at them. As ever, Mr. Lord is the exception to the rule. You do as directed, boosting yourself up onto the unforgiving surface of his desk. Instinctively, you try to close your legs to preserve a degree of modesty, only for Max to bat one of your knees lazily to the side and step between them. 

It’s humiliating, how little effort he has to put into keeping you in line. You feel tears prickling as he runs his free hand down your side like a horse trader examining a mare at market, his touch acquisitive rather than attentive. His right hand stays at your jaw; his left finds one of the bigger marks on your inner thigh, a vivid purple bitemark from the day before. You can’t help the pathetic little whimper that escapes you when he presses down on it with his thumb. 

“Does that hurt?” His neutral tone is completely belied by the sharp spike in force as he pushes harder against your bruised, tender flesh. His fingers wrap around your thigh, stopping you from trying to jerk away from the pain. When your only response is a pained gasp, he presses down harder still. 

“Yes, it hurts.” You manage to mewl, your fingernails scrabbling for purchase against the unforgiving glass tabletop. And it does hurt, the bearable ache turning into a stabbing pain, and you can’t help but try to free yourself despite his harsh grip. It’s not enough, and the hand at your jaw finds your throat. 

“Yes, what?” He asks evenly, sounding completely unbothered by your struggle. His face is so close that if he shifted just an inch closer, you could kiss him. How laughable. Instead his hands tighten, restricting your breath and sharpening your pain, giving and taking with both hands. 

“Yes, sir, it hurts. Please-” The hand on your neck is so tight that you barely manage to croak your words out. Even though you’ve corrected your mistake, Maxwell doesn’t relent. The tears that have been threatening for a while spill over your lashes as he looms over you, watching you fight for air. 

The hand at your thigh finally lets go, though not without a stinging slap delivered right over your bruise. Instead, he pushes your legs wider and presses his fingers insistently against your folds. You can’t help the shuddering, gasping sob that wrenches its way out of your mouth when he finally touches you where you want him the most. The sound earns you another smirk, and the briefest swipe of his thumb over your clit. 

“Look at you, you filthy slut.” Mr. Lord croons, using his grip on your neck to force you to meet his gaze. “If it hurts so much, why does it get you this wet?” As if to prove his point, he slides two fingers easily inside you. You try to groan, but the sound that leaves your constricted throat is broken and ragged and almost inaudible. It’s still such a careful balance of give and take; he’ll fill your cunt while he empties your lungs. Some mad part of you feels like that’s a fair trade. 

You’re not sure you’d be able to breathe properly even if he wasn’t crushing your windpipe. If he actually wanted you to answer, he’d slacken his grip on your neck. All you get instead is that smug smile, and his fingers pressing more deeply into you. God, you feel dizzy as you try to savour his touch. 

“I don’t think you’d get this wet if I was sweet to you. Would you? If I kissed you, if I made love to you, and never left a mark?” The idea of Maxwell Lord doing anything to you sweetly is absurd. He withdraws his fingers from inside you in favour of tracing teasing circles around your clit. It’s all you can do not to whine plaintively at the loss. Instead, you somehow manage to shake your head in answer to his question. He seems satisfied with your non-verbal answer. 

“No, you wouldn’t. You want it like this, don’t you? You little whore.” Your honesty earns you more direct attention to your clit, and if it weren’t for the hand still gripping your throat, you would have thrown your head back in pleasure. Though you can’t draw in enough breath to make a proper sound, your lips part nevertheless. The way he’s rolling his fingers against your clit feels incredible, your back arching into his touch as best as you are capable of. 

Your head is spinning, and your nerve endings feel as though they are systematically being set alight under his fingers. Tears are still falling freely from your eyes, but you have no idea if they’re a result of pleasure or pain. You can rarely tell the difference where Mr. Lord is concerned. It’s only when you start to see darkness creeping into your field of vision that you start to worry. His hand is still wrapped firmly around your throat, and your body is finally rebelling against the lack of oxygen. 

It’s happened before; you recognise the signs by now. Lightheadedness is normal, or at least what passes for normal. Your swimming vision, the tingling that you’re starting to feel in your fingertips, the drowsiness that’s suddenly threatening to overwhelm you; that is not normal. That’s usually the sign that you’re getting too close to passing out, that your brain is no longer getting enough oxygen to keep you conscious. 

Despite your eyes starting to flutter shut as more dark spots appear, you’re desperately trying to think of a way to communicate this to Max that won’t land you in trouble. He doesn’t like to be touched, you remind yourself firmly, even as your body starts to sag. You try to speak, but all that comes out of your mouth is a barely-audible rasp. 

The savage backhand startles you. The hand that had been between your legs cracks against your temple, his heavy golden rings biting the delicate skin of your browbone and forcing fresh tears from you. Mercifully, he lets go of your throat. Instead, he twists his fist into your hair and practically shakes you by the scalp to make sure that you’re awake. 

“Did I give you permission to pass out on me?” You hardly hear him, you’re so intent on gasping for breath. You take heaving lungfuls of air, and you would swear in that moment that oxygen has never tasted sweeter. It makes your throat burn, but you don’t care. 

“No, sir, I’m sorry-” Another slap cuts you off, though not quite as savage as the one from before. You flex your legs inadvertently around him, and the soft laugh your reaction elicits from him sends shivers through your soul. 

“You ungrateful brat. I might actually have let you finish if you hadn’t been so careless.” He drags you unceremoniously from your perch on the desk, and turns you around before your unsteady legs can buckle. With no warning, he uses the hand still fisted in your hair to push you downwards and bend you in half over the glass surface. 

“Maybe I should let you black out next time, and dump you in the lobby like this. Then everyone could see what a filthy little thing you really are.” There’s no anger in his voice, and that almost makes it more terrifying. He’s unpredictable, and somehow that has you aroused and afraid all at once. God, your temple hurts where his rings made contact, but you’re so desperate for him that you can’t bring yourself to care. 

The stem of his watch has caught in your hair, but he pulls it free uncaringly. It rips strands of hair out with it, and you allow yourself the barest whimper. You feel uncomfortably wet, so painfully aroused and on edge that you think you might come close to passing out once more if he touches you again. 

You almost sigh in relief when you hear the faint clink of his belt buckle being undone. It’s a perverse reaction; you know that he’ll give you no relief whatsoever. You wouldn’t have it any other way. It makes you jump when he leans over you, his hands braced on either side of you as he gets so close that his lips brush against your shoulder. 

“What do you want?” He asks silkily, before he sinks his teeth into your skin. The pain makes you mewl pitifully and shudder beneath him. He knows what you want, of course he does. He knows all of your deep, dark desires. Sometimes he sits you on his desk and teases you mercilessly until you tell him every filthy thought you’ve ever had. But he wants to hear you admit to it, and it’s all you can do to obey. 

“I want you to use me. God, sir, please.” You manage, fighting to stop your voice from cracking. You don’t succeed, and you can feel him smile against your skin at the way you’re having to talk through your tears. He shifts abruptly off you, and you whine at the loss of his weight against you. 

Barely do you have time to register the sound of his zipper being undone before the blunt head of him is pressing against you, into you. The stretch never fails to make you wince and whimper, no matter how used to his size you think you are. Your throat feels ragged when you cry out at the force of his thrust, the unforgiving edge of the desk cutting into your hips as he buries himself fully within you.

Max’s hands grasp at your hips as he starts to fuck you in earnest, and the only sounds you can manage are desperate, juddering sobs. His pace is brutal and bruising, but it’s exactly the intensity that you’ve been aching for since you set foot in his office. He’s right; you wouldn’t enjoy it half as much if he was gentle and tender with you. 

“Filthy girl.” He groans behind you, bringing his hand down to give you a stinging smack. “Always so tight and wet for me.” You can’t gather yourself enough to answer coherently, only able to try to buck back against him with a plaintive mewl. He’s still almost fully dressed, and it only serves to make you feel more vulnerable. 

Your palms slide uselessly against the desk, unable to gain any sort of purchase on the slick surface. With nothing to brace yourself against, you can’t attempt to meet his thrusts in any way. All you can do is lie there and take it, entirely at his mercy. 

With a low groan, Mr. Lord sinks his hand back into your hair and pulls until you arch your back. It opens you up more, allows him to press in further still, hitting so deeply within you that it feels like he’s flaying you open all the way up to your ribs. 

The slight shift lets him press against the very end of you; there’s no more of you for him to take. It aches, but the downward angle of his thrusts means he’s putting more pressure on that spot inside of you too, the one that turns your vision white. Give and take, as ever. You try to focus on that, on the pleasure that’s coiling within your core and quickly threatening to overtake whatever discomfort you might feel. 

“Sir, can I come? Please?” You manage to gasp out, your voice cracking as more tears spill over your lashes. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s stretched taut as you get closer to the brink, and your gasping sobs get a little higher in pitch. The fist in your hair tightens, forces your head back a little further. 

“No.” Maxwell grunts, and you can practically feel him smirking at you. You whine desperately at his judgement, though you have enough sense not to protest more vocally. It’s agony, having to fight against the pleasure that’s building with every brutal jerk of Max’s hips. Your torment only seems to spur him on, somehow fucking into you harder. The harsher pace practically forces the breath from your lungs, and your nails scrabble uselessly against the glass-topped mahogany. 

His head drops unexpectedly to your shoulder blades, giving you barely half a moment to brace yourself before he sinks his teeth into you. It’s too much, he’s too much, between his bruising grip on your hip and in your hair, his teeth in your shoulder, his cock splitting you open. It makes you want to scream, but you can’t gather enough breath to get the sound out. 

The heady drag of his teeth against your already sensitive skin makes you tighten around him , his answering groan vibrating against your shoulder. He bites down again as he finally comes, hips shuddering as he fucks you through his climax. You feel so tightly wound after your own neglected orgasm that fresh tears slide down your face when he pulls out of you. 

He drops you unceremoniously back onto the desk, hair catching on his watch again as he lets go of you. You don’t even have the strength to make a sound, content to lie flat against the glass and try to catch your breath. Your face slides damply against the slick surface, and you wonder how much of that is down to just your tears. 

From somewhere close beside you, you hear the leather of Max’s office chair shift as he sits back down. Part of you itches to turn your head to look at him, and see what he’s doing. You don’t dare, not entirely confident in your ability to stand just yet. He’s ordered you out of his office before for doing less, and you want every second you can to try and compose yourself. 

Your reprieve doesn’t last long. 

“Stand up.” His voice sounds calm and even, as though he hadn’t just been pounding you into his desk a few moments ago. You pick yourself up gingerly, wincing at the soreness you’re starting to feel between your legs. Wincing at the soreness you’re starting to feel everywhere, to be more accurate. Your scalp stings, your throat still feels ragged, and you have new bruises and bitemarks scattered across your skin. It’s something of a miracle that you manage to stand at all. 

Maxwell’s hand grasps at your hip again, encouraging you to turn around and face him. He’s sprawled in his office chair, barely a hair out of place as he examines you. An expression of mocking pity crosses his face, and his eyes flick up towards your temple. 

“Poor thing.” He murmurs tauntingly. “Does that hurt?” His face twists into an expression of mock concern. You don’t know what he means, at first. You remembered the crack he had given you around the temple for almost passing out, but surely there wouldn’t be a bruise there yet? Gingerly, you raise your hand to your forehead, suddenly very aware of the throbbing pain there. 

Your fingertips come away bloody. One of his rings must have nicked your temple, just above your browbone. It’s barely bigger than a papercut, but it still stings. You don’t want to think about how you must look, with a mix of blood and tears and running mascara streaking down your face. Mr. Lord tuts, and reaches up so he can press his thumb against your forehead. 

“I asked you a question.” He presses down ever so slightly with his thumb. You’re acutely aware of how vulnerable you are, naked and still shaking slightly as you stand before him. 

“Yes, sir, it hurts.” You manage quietly. With a satisfied-sounding hum, he lets the thumb that had been pressing against your temple fall to your lips. You part them unhesitatingly, letting him push the digit into your mouth. The metallic tang of your blood hits you first, along with a suggestion of salt that could be your tears or his skin or a combination of both. Curling your tongue around the tip of his thumb, you suck gently until the coppery taste of your blood fades away. 

“You can get dressed, and then get out.” Maxwell pushes you abruptly away. Your first steps are faltering, very aware of your aching legs and recent brush with unconsciousness. You can feel his eyes on you as he watches you dress. It’s not fair; he still looks immaculate. You, on the other hand, look like a mess. Your clothes are rumpled from your hurried dressing, your face is a mess of smeared makeup, blood, and tears, and your hair doesn’t even bear thinking about. 

“Will that be all, sir?” You ask, smoothing down your skirt. Something about the way he looks at you makes your stomach drop. Maybe it’s the smirk on his face, or the way his eyes have a dangerous glint to them. For half a moment, you wonder if he’s going to order you to kneel under his desk for a while. It would hardly be the first time. Instead, he surprises you by twisting one of his rings from his finger and passing it to you. 

It’s a heavy golden affair, set with a black stone in the centre. It’s only when you look at it that you realise one corner is stained a dark red. Evidently, this was the offending jewel that had bitten into your skin. 

“Get yourself cleaned up, then take this to my jewellers on Marquis Street and have it cleaned.” You nod, and finally start to retreat from the office. It feels like hours since he first summoned you in here, and you’ll be grateful for the fresh air. The fact that you’ll have to walk past most of the executive secretaries to get to the ladies room barely even embarasses you any more, though admittedly you’ve never walked through the rows of desks bleeding freely before. 

“Oh, and be back within the hour. I don’t want you wandering too far off.” Mr. Lord calls out as you stand on the threshold, one hand on the door. 

“Yes, sir.”


End file.
